


Fallout:  Hat Vegas

by replicasex



Series: Hat AUs [8]
Category: Fallout: New Vegas, Hat Films - Fandom, The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fallout, Caesar's Legion, Dark, Dark Smith, Facials, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Master/Slave, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-06-23 04:27:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15598278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/replicasex/pseuds/replicasex
Summary: Centurion Alexius Smith loves breaking in new slaves.  And he's just set his eyes on a newly enslaved Ross.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> CW: mentions of past domestic violence, death threats and threats of bodily harm, rape and dehumanization.

The hot Mojave sun glared down on the writhing mass of slaves locked in their pens.  Centurion Smith was tasked with the orderly distribution of the new slaves among the camp and to supervise their breaking-in.  There would be little mercy for the slaves who rebelled or shirked their duties, but the Legion treated its slaves as well as any workaday animal.  If they obeyed, they would live with few injuries. 

Smith kept a keen eye out for anything that struck him as odd or unnatural.  A slave that was too calm might be in shock but it also might be preparing an attack.  It was why Smith had ordered the slaves stripped naked.  They would burn in the Mojave sun but they would soon burn anyway. 

Most were already tan but one particular body stood out among the rest.  Pale white and skin as smooth as cream.  The slave stood tall, as tall as Smith himself, but he had the perfect cringing posture of the naturally servile.  Smith felt himself stiffen as he strode towards his target.  He had lost his personal slave to a Profligate raiding party last month and he was sorely in need of a new one. 

He nodded to one of the Legionnaires under his command. 

“Bring me the pale one,” Smith said, pointing to the slave that had caught his eye.  The Legionnaire saluted and swiftly plucked the pale beauty from the writhing mass of slaves.  The Legionnaire pushed the slave to all fours in front of Smith.  He was already wearing a Legion slave collar, tight enough that flesh bulged a little above its tight grip.  The sight excited Smith even more. 

Smith bent down and looked the slave over.  He was gritty from the pen and obviously sweating in the Mojave sun.  His brown hair had been taken care of once and it still looked soft and thick.  Smith did not resist the urge to run his hand through his hair and he was startled to see a vein of premature grey in the slave’s hair.  He liked to think his raiding party had caused that when they captured him.  It gave the slave a distinctive look.  Just perfect, Smith thought. 

“Take this one to the slave-master and have him shorn from the neck down,” Smith said to the Legionnaire.  “And fit his slave cock with something temporary until I can have something custom made.”  It was an extravagance that was not necessary for regular slaves but had become fashionable among officers and their pleasure slaves.  He would have to spend a good deal of his own denarii if he expected to keep status with the other Centurions in the Legion. 

The Legionnaire saluted smartly once again and took hold of the slave’s collar and took him to the slave master’s tent.  The pretty slave would be washed and oiled too as a courtesy to his rank.  Smith sighed and adjusted his leathers.  He had a long day ahead before he could take pleasure in breaking his new slave in. 

*

When the slaves had finally been checked and catalogued, when the weak and infirm had been culled, when the beginnings of duties and training had been doled out, then finally could Smith call it a day and return to his own tent.  By now, he was positively aching for release and for an outlet for his growing frustration with Caesar’s plans to beat back the NCR.  But that would hold for another day. Tonight, there was pleasure. 

He walked through the heavy leather flaps of his tent in surprising good spirits.  And those spirits rose again when he saw what was waiting for him.  His slave, washed and oiled, waiting on his knees.  A thin iron chain had been attached to a manacle on his ankle, binding him to Smith’s bed.  Smith smiled broadly.  This would be a fine night. 

Smith began by moving in front of the slave’s eyeline.  He methodically took off his armor and leathers piece by piece, taking care to place them on their stand where they belonged.  The slave had sense enough to watch this but not enough to avoid catching Smith’s eye.  It was a good sign, Smith thought.  There was no fun in training the perfect slave. 

When he was down to his loincloth he cupped the slave’s head with both hands.  He tilted the slave’s head up until their eyes met. 

“I won’t say this again, so listen to me clearly.  You are my property now, the property of Caesar’s Legion.  If you obey me, you will not find me too cruel a master.  Disobey and I will have you fed to the dogs.”  Smith noted with satisfaction that the slave shivered and began to sweat.  Smith ran one hand down the slave’s oiled flank, rubbing him slowly to calm the slave down.  Smith knew a slave could be broken with fear but the most loyal slaves were enslaved by affection as well.  And Smith wanted this slave to last.

“You belong to me, personally.  My name is Alexius Smith, a Centurion of the Legion.  Do you know what that means?” Smith asked.  “You may speak.” 

“You’re a commanding officer.” The slave said after a moment’s pause.  “You’re powerful, in charge of other Legionnaires.”  The slave had a low, gravelly voice that Smith thought suited his large frame.  “I’m your property.” He added dully, only for show.  It made Smith smile again.  Those words would be repeated soon enough with real sincerity. 

“And what were you called, before you became my property?” Smith asked.  The slave hesitated long enough that Smith thought he might have to strike him after all but he soon choked out the answer.

“Ross,” The slave said, closing his eyes.  “My name is Ross.” 

Smith let his grip on the slave’s head loose and continued to rub circles gently into the slave’s naked flank. 

“And have you lain with a man, Ross?”  Smith asked.  Ross trembled a little as his breath hitched.   

“Yes,” He said, voice barely above a whisper. 

“How many?”  Smith asked, intrigued. 

“One,” Ross said.  His eyes were open again and they were swimming with tears. 

“And he was a part of the caravan I raided,” Smith guessed.  It pained the slave to think of it but Smith could not detect a note of sorrow or grief in him. 

“Yes,” Ross answered. 

“Did you love him?” Smith asked cruelly, a smile in his voice.

“No,” The slave shook his head, firmer than anything he had done all day.  Smith was intrigued.  “He was a chem addict.”  Ross continued, when the silence between them became oppressive.  “He was – he …” Ross trailed off.

“He beat you,” Smith said as he rubbed his calloused hands into Ross’ cheeks.  That explains the natural servility, Smith thought.  He was a little disappointed.  It would take effort to undo another man’s fear and replace it with his own brand of dominance. 

“He confused you,” Smith explained.  He could guess the shape of the terror that Ross had been subjected to.  Profligates were all the same, after all.  “He told you he loved you, didn’t he?  And then he took his hand to you.”  Smith wiped away tears running down Ross’ face as he nodded silently.  “But Profligates can never master themselves, let alone another.  He wasn’t worthy to make you kneel.  But don’t worry, Ross.  There will be no confusion here.  You are my slave and I am your master.” 

Ross cried freely now, which Smith took as an encouraging sign.  The slave was not likely to descend into hysterics, at least.  It was time now to explain his rules and a slave’s duty. 

“Your duties will be clear, Ross.  You will serve my meals and clothe me in the morning.  You’ll keep this tent tidy and neat.  And you will, of course, warm my bed.”  Smith finally reached down between the slave’s legs and gently tugged at the cruel iron cage housing his cock.  “My pleasure is what matters here, slave.  This cage is only temporary.  I’ll have you sized properly and then a new one will be welded on.  You’ve no need of a cock, of course, and this will prevent you from seeking out the other slaves to fulfill your pleasure.” 

Ross squealed a little as Smith tugged hard on the cage. 

“This cage is a privilege, slave.  There are easier ways to stop you from straying from your master.  Don’t make me use them.”  Smith said.  But Smith had had enough talk.  Time to put the slave to use. 

“Undo my loincloth,” Smith said, shuffling forward till his crotch was nearly touching the slave’s forehead.  Ross’ hands went to work quickly enough and soon freed his cock from its confines.  It jutted out proudly and Smith hissed in pleasure as the head traveled Ross’ cheeks, collecting wetness from his tears.  Smith loved the difference between them.  That his cock was free and hard but his slave’s was locked and soft.  That he was hairy where his slave was shaved clean. 

Smith took hold of Ross’ head with both hands and tilted his lips towards his hard cock. 

“You’re going to suck me now,” Smith said slowly.  “I can twist this pretty neck faster than you can bite, boy, so keep your teeth to yourself and you’ll live another day.” 

The slave’s mouth opened slowly, plush lips sucking the tip a dart of tongue to lick up the slick Smith had already made.  Smith moaned and pushed into the slave’s warm mouth.  Whatever else his previous pseudo-owner had done, he had at least taught the slave how to suck cock. 

Smith pushed in until Ross gagged and then kept pushing.  The slave would grow use to it or Smith would simply continue to enjoy the feeling of Ross’ throat spasming around his cock.  Ultimately, they made do and Smith found himself nearing climax.  He placed a hand on the crown of Ross’ head and used the other to stroke himself.  He came out of the slave’s mouth with a wet plop and pushed his sac over Ross’ nose.  Slaves should know their masters by scent, after all. 

He stroked his cock over the slave’s face and a few strokes later he was coming, plastering Ross’ face and striping his hair, too.  Smith generously let the slave have the last sputter and encouraged him to clean his cock up.  Smith felt more relaxed than he had in weeks. 

“Keep that on till morning, slave.  If I see you try to wipe it off it’ll be piss next.  Do you understand?”  Smith asked, sitting heavily on his bed. 

“Yes,” Ross said hoarsely.  He looked at the chain linking him to Smith’s bed and spoke again.  “Yes … master.” 

Smith smiled and blew out the lamp next to his bed.  He was looking forward to tomorrow.  After all, it was the start of something beautiful. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: dehumanization, mentions of non-con body modifications and general evil

Being a Centurion, Smith reflected, had its privileges. Tonight he’d have as fine a dinner as the wild Mojave could produce, with some of his favorite people. Ross was busying himself with the finishing touches to tonight’s dinner. Smith himself had raided the NCR caravan the food had come from and had reserved the best stuff for himself. And for some of his close allies, at least.

“Centurion?” asked a soft voice outside Smith’s tent. Smith recognized the voice.

“Enter,” Smith said. Smith noticed Ross had flinched at the sound of his favorite scout’s voice. He reminded himself to fix that little anxiety later.

“Ave, true to Ceasar.” the Speculatore Craig said. He was of slight build with striking pale skin, but Smith knew of no one better to send out alone among the wilderness and degenerates of the Mojave. He nearly rivaled a Fumentarii for cunning and ruthlessness.

“Ave,” Smith said. He hoped Craig could hear the smile in his voice. It had been too long since he had seen his friend, and he hoped they could renew their friendship over their meal.

After a pause, Craig smiled too.

“It’s been too long, old friend.” Craig said, holding out his hand. Smith shook it with a firm grip.

“And too long away from a Centurion’s table, I’d wager.” Smith said, waving at the veritable feast laid out before him. Craig sighed with pleasure.

“Nothing but gecko meat and rad roaches for almost two months,” Craig admitted as he sat down at the table. He craned his slender neck at where Ross carefully grated bighorner cheese over their steaming meals.

“I see you’ve kept up the habit of collecting pretty things,” Craig said, nodding at Ross. “I didn’t get any kind of look at him last night when I made my report.” The slave had a short tunic of burlap draped across his broad torso to keep the worst of the sun off his back. Smith insisted, however, that he wore no leggings or undergarments in his tent. Both Smith and Craig took a moment to appreciate the slave’s exposed ass and thighs.

“Nothing but the best,” Smith said. “I don’t hold with substandard tools.”

“You never have,” Craig agreed. He eyed Ross again. The scout had been away from every comfort for the last two months, trailing NCR troop movements and even a detachment of Rangers. Smith appreciated Craig as a man of appetite. He had proper notions regarding the treatment of slaves. He was even stricter than Smith, which was why all the barracks-slaves were in mortal terror of the man.

“When Decanus Trott gets here, we’ll eat. And afterwards, who knows? Being generous is a Centurion’s privilege.” Smith said casually. Craig’s eyes widened and then he smiled shyly.

“I should stay out in the field more often, if this is how my superiors react when I return.” Craig said. He was still starring at Ross, with a small smile playing across his face.

“Just making sure you know you’re appreciated, Craig. You’re my best scout.” Smith said.

“I feel it,” Craig replied. And Smith could hear the sincerity in his voice. Smith felt a frisson of happiness. Here was how the world should be. A world grateful for – and dependent on – Centurion Smith.

“Ross,” Smith called, looking behind him briefly. “Leave that for a moment, come here and present.” Ross laid the utensils down and presented himself to Smith’s guest, hands clasped behind his back. Craig eyed Ross’ cock cage appreciatively.

“A tight fit,” Craig said with approval. “The blacksmith outdid himself.”

“With enough prodding that old bastard can make something finer than a rusty machete,” Smith said. In truth it had taken more than a few denarii and some subtle threats to get such quality work out of the old man. Ross’ cage had been worth it however. There was barely a millimeter of give in it and it was expertly locked in place. Without the custom tool, even an engineer with a plasma torch would have a hard time removing it, and removing it without injuring Ross would be impossible.

Craig's eyes continued traveling downwards.

“Not gelded?” Craig asked with a smirk.

“You know how I feel about that, Craig. No point in a field slave, and even less in a domestic one, if it can’t hold its shape. If I wanted a woman I’d have just got one.” Smith said, amused as his friend’s quirks.

“I know, I know,” Craig held up his hands to placate him. “But there’s nothing quite like taking a slave you’ve just neutered.”

“That must be why this camp goes through slaves like a brahmin goes through grass.” Smith said, laughing.

“Maybe! You have to have them see to their wounds after, of course, but it’s a real pleasure to show those dumb things their place.” Craig said with a wistful tone.

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about that with Ross here, he knows his place as well as any bedslave I’ve ever had.” Smith said. He looked back over Ross. “Go prepare our meals, slave, Trott will be here any minute.”

“At once, master.” Ross said in a quiet voice. He returned to his duties.

“You luck out on all the slaves, sir,” Craig said with admiration.

“Just takes a keen eye is all, Craig, and a willingness not to cut their balls off at the drop of a hat.” Smith laughed. “I’m pretty sure he’d been a slave before his capture, or something close enough anyway.” Smith explained the circumstances of Ross’ capture and the nature of his previous lover. Craig tsked.

“Not a fan of taking another man’s leavings, but as you say at least he’d been broken in before you captured him.” Craig said. His eyes lit up. “Experienced, would you say?”

“Extremely,” Smith said, grinning. “At nearly everything. Gives massages like you wouldn’t believe, too.”

“Damn,” Craig said glumly. “Barracks slaves just don’t measure up, even when I resist the urge to unman them.”

Outside there was the even stomp of boots at the tent’s entrance. Smith stood up.

“That’ll be Trott,” Smith said. Raising his voice, he said “Enter!”

“How’d you know I was outside, sir?” Decanus Trott asked as he parted the leather flap and entered the Centurion’s tent.

“Easy enough to hear those big clodhoppers you call feet, Legionnaire.” Smith said, motioning for Trott to sit at his table.

“Loud as a radscorpion,” Craig agreed. Trott settled himself at the table beside Craig and the two shared a friendly slap across each other’s backs.

“When did you get in?” Trott asked.

“Late last night,” Craig said. “Made my report at what, 3 o’clock at night?” Smith frowned.

“It was four o’clock by my reckoning and don’t think I won’t return the favor sometime,” Smith grumbled good-naturedly.

“I almost gutted his new slave boy before I noticed the collar,” Craig joked, turning to Trott. “Last I knew his bedslave had taken a knife to the throat in an NCR raid. Thought he was an intruder!”

“Oh no,” Trott groaned. “Let me guess – he made an absolute mess wrestling Ross to the floor before you woke up?”

“Put him in a choke hold. That’s when I felt the collar. Made my apologies to Smith right away of course.” Craig said, nodding at Smith.

“No harm done,” Smith said. “Ross learned to identify himself as my property right away the next time someone comes by, I think.” They all laughed.

“He wasn’t hurt though, right?” Trott said, looking over at Ross. Smith rolled his eyes. Unlike Craig and himself Trott was something of a soft heart, or at least as much of a soft heart as a senior Legionnaire could be. Where Craig and Smith were feared, Trott inspired a certain sappiness from the camp’s slaves. It never verged on any dangerous talk, thankfully. Smith would hate to lose his best soldier.

“He’s fine,” Smith said. He caught Ross’ eye and nodded his assent. Ross picked up their plates and the trays and set Smith’s table. Smith was pleased that Ross remembered to serve him first. On the table there was creamy yucca mash, a fine slab of brahmin steak, figs stuffed with bighorner cheese and more. For the Mojave, it was practically gourmet.

Trott whistled appreciatively. Beside him, a hungry Craig dug in with the fervor of a man who’d spent the last month hunting down his own food in a hostile wasteland. Ross sat cross legged at Smith’s chair, head lowered respectfully. Smith patted his leg with a free hand and Ross obediently laid his head on his master’s thigh. The tent was quiet for a time as the three men of the Legion enjoyed their meal.

“You know, Ross here flinched when he heard your voice, Craig.” Smith said as they finished up their dinner. His hand on the crown of Ross’ head. He felt a little shudder as he mentioned the slave’s fear.

“As well he should,” Craig said sternly. “It’s not every day a slave gets the pleasure of being choked out by the Legion’s finest scout.” Trott and Smith rolled their eyes at the boast.

“There’s that, of course,” Smith said. “But I think he ran into your handiwork in the canteen the other day – he asked me about you.” Craig’s eyes widened with pleasure.

“Tell me what you heard, slave.” Craig said, addressing the slave for the first time. Ross mumbled incoherently into Smith’s thigh. Smith, whose hand was carding through Ross’ soft hair, suddenly tightens his fist and pulls Ross’ head back.

“Answer your superiors clearly, slave.” Smith ordered. He could see the bob of Ross’ Adam's apple as he swallowed in fear.

“Yessir, I’m sorry sir.” Ross said to Smith. He turned his head as much as he could with his hair bunched in Smith’s fist. “I’m sorry Master Craig, I only heard the kitchen slaves explain how you liked … how you corrected slaves by gelding them, sir.” Craig’s smirked.

“Only the ones I fuck, and the disposable ones at that.” Craig said. “Your owner doesn’t agree, though – more’s the shame. You’d look better without that mess swinging between your legs.” Smith tugged Ross’ hair again.

“Yessir,” Ross hurriedly replied. “Thank you sir.” With that, Smith let his hair go and returned to gently carding his hand through it, pulling his head back down to the Centurion’s hard thigh. They finished their meal quickly after that. Smith and Trott embraced, with a few words whispered between them. Trott was to lead a detachment of men tomorrow before sunrise. They were to target a group of Powder Gangers. The ones they didn’t crucify would make excellent slaves for the mines back home.

“Good hunting,” Smith said to his friend.

“And you, sir.” Trott said as he exited the tent.

*

After Ross had put the dishes away and wiped down the table, he stood at attention beside Smith while he and Craig discussed camp gossip. Eventually, Smith acknowledged the hungry looks Craig was shooting over at his slave.

“Time for me to make good on my promise, eh?” Smith asked. He pointed at the table next to Craig. “Spread!” he commanded. Ross scrambled to obey and draped himself over the table, holding his legs out wide for better access. Both men stood and leaned over to enjoy the sight.

Ross’ pucker was pink and small, nearly hairless, and best of all, completely theirs. Shooting a look to Smith, Craig asked for permission. Smith nodded. With a professional air Craig placed the pad of his thumb to Ross’ hole and tested the give. He whistled.

“Damn tight ring, sir.” he said. There was a wet pop as his thumb slid inside. “Keeps himself wet, does he?” he asked.

“He knows what he’s for.” Smith said, running his hands through Ross’ hair again. “Trust me, he didn’t enjoy the one time he forgot to lube up.” They both laughed.

“He really is beautiful,” Craig said, rubbing his free hand over Ross pale ass. “Have you thought about studding him out?”

“I’ve had requests,” Smith admitted. “But I don’t hold with letting the slaves fuck. Maybe in a few years, after things settle down.” Ross shuddered as Craig’s thumb bore down on his prostate.

“He’s sensitive,” Craig observed as Ross squirmed beneath him.

“Very,” Smith agreed. “Had to up his discipline since he was enjoying being fucked so much.”

“What can I … ?” Craig trailed off, looking at Smith.

“Anything that isn’t permanent or stops him from doing his duties later.” Smith said, grandly. “Enjoy yourself, Speculatore.”

“Thank you, sir.” Craig said. Smith could hear the gratitude. And the hunger.

Craig quickly undid his leathers and undertunic. Craig’s body was thin and wiry but hardened from years in the field. Smith admired the scout’s many scars and burns. Craig’s cock was already stiff and dripping his need.

“Go ahead,” Smith told him. “His cunt’s all yours.” Ross yelped beneath them as Craig slid deep inside him.

“Fuck,” Craig groaned. “Even tighter than I thought he’d be.” Craig rolled his hips into Ross, who was letting out a constant stream of whimpers and moans. Smith positioned himself in front of Ross on the other side of the table and lifted his leather skirt.

“Suck.” Smith ordered. Ross strained his neck forward and swallowed his master’s cock with practiced ease. Smith sighed as Ross swallowed and gagged on his length. Every time Craig snapped his skinny hips into him, Ross gagged again on his cock. “Fuck, that’s nice,” Smith said approvingly. Craig fucked Ross in a steady rhythm, not willing to end his Centurion’s generosity too early.

“You know,” Craig said, panting as he fucked Ross, “he tried to speak to me after I realized he was your slave last night.” Smith rolled his eyes and sighed.

“They always think we want a conversation,” Smith said. He put down his leather skirt to cover Ross’ head entirely. “But I’d get a better conversation at the kennel.” Smith smiled down at what he saw. A slave was just a vessel for its masters, after all.

“I want to … sir, I want to-” Craig stuttered.

“Go ahead, Craig – just remember my rules.” Smith said.

“Yessir,” Craig said. He snaked one arm between himself and Ross, reaching down and groping until he found what he wanted. Smith’s cock wasn’t quiet enough to muffle the scream coming from the slave as Craig took his balls in his hand and squeezed. “Fuck yes.” Craig said, fucking the slave harder.

“Bite me and I’ll whip the skin off your back,” Smith said casually, looking down where Ross continued to throat his cock beneath his leathers. Craig groaned and pulled Ross’ hips hard onto his cock. Smith smiled as he watched his best scout spill his load into Ross.

“Fuck,” Craig moaned. “He’s milked every drop.”

“Told you he was talented.” Smith said. He upped his pace and mercilessly fucked the slave’s throat, spurting into his mouth a few moments later. Ross cleaned off his cock as Craig got dressed. Smith pulled out of the slave’s mouth with a soft plop.

“Thank you, Master.” Ross said with a hoarse voice. Smith was proud he no longer had to prompt him. “Thank you, Master Craig.”

“He’s a credit to his owner,” Craig said, ignoring the slave. He smiled broadly and Smith’s heart warmed to see his friend so happy.

“That he is,” Smith said. “Do you feel better?”

“I feel like a civilized man again,” Craig said. “That was the best damn welcome back I’ve ever had, sir. Thank you.”

Smith grinned. He knew he had just cemented his friendship and alliance with Craig, just as he had cemented his friendship with Trott years before. His star was rising. Soon, the Mojave would tremble.


End file.
